


Fill the Bucket

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Beach Holidays, Bucket List, Demon Deals, Domestic Fluff, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Grumpy Sam, Hex Bags, Hoodoo, Hurt Sam Winchester, Jealous Sam, Jealous Sam Winchester, Jealousy, Love Confessions, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Possessive Sam, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Reader-Insert, Romantic Fluff, Sex, Sexism, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Swimming, surfer dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-22 09:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9599282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: People are burning up from the inside out, and you don't know why.  On the way, you meet adrenaline junkies who waste no time on responsibilities or regrets, and Sam starts to think of what he might have missed were it all to end tomorrow.  He decides to make something happen, instead of waiting for it.In this first part, you and Sam meet people who actually have bucket lists.  Sam doesn’t like them.This is for @curliesallovertheplace #Curlies Celebration Challenge. My prompt was What if Sam wants to cross off an item on his bucket list / to finish his bucket list?





	1. Chapter 1

You’re standing beside Sam, watching a forever-tanned guy named Guy, explain about his friend who died last night.  Sam is doing the talking, you’re taking notes.

“You know we just wrapped the best season, the best season ever out in Cali and we were like, we gotta see the Gulf!”

“Yeah-”

“And the Atlantic!  Man!  We hadn’t even seen the _Atlantic!_  Who can die without seeing the great givers of life on this planet?!”

Sam clenches his jaw at Guy’s passion.  The tears flow freely as he waves his arms at the east and west coasts beyond the horizon, pleading at Sam to match his earnestness.  “Yeah.”

“Right?! And who doesn’t have a road trip on their bucket list!  I mean, I knew Dougie did, it was perfect.  So we were like hell yeah man, lets just rip the guts out of the bus and fill it with beanbags and fuckin’ go!” Guy starts to lose it again, dissolving into sobs.  “We didn’t e-heven make it through Uh-tah! Ya-huh-Ya know-w?  A-huh-huh-huh…” Guy’s body bounces with misery, his buddy rubbing his back as he points and clutches at the air, reaching for the ocean his friend will never get to see.

“And you say he just, uh, ‘bought it, burned up inside’,” Sam reads from the notes.

Guy rants, already tired of defending his story.  “Hey I know I had some hot patchouli yesterday but I know for real I saw him burst into flames from the inside out.  And they were angry flames man, the rage of the earth!  And then the _smoke_ , that was like, right away!”

“Right,” Sam frowns, listening intently to the part he actually wants to hear.  “Did the smoke move?”

“Yes!” Guy throws himself at Sam, grabbing his jacket.  “Yes, it went up into the sky!”  Guy points, way up high, and bursts his fingers _poof, he was gone_. “Like, to heaven!”

Sam doesn’t like this Guy. “And then what happened?”

“We freaked the fuck out man!”

Sam heaves his chest with all the patience he can suck from this wonderful, glorious, sustaining-every-shining-soul earth, and asks again.  “And after that?  Was there anything else strange?”

“No,” Guy lets him go and looks at his palms as he talks.  “No, everything was just the same, but without our Dougie.”

“Did Dougie have many secrets? A history?”

“You know what he had man? A running passion for life!” Guy points at Sam like he suggested otherwise.  “He lived _every day_ , he had goals, and he counted them off.  Hawaii, Bells Beach, Yosemite,” Guy marks them on his fingers as he goes, “deep cave diving, base jumping, Burning Man, big waves, redheads, blondes… you name it, he rode it.”

“Okay, thanks.”  Sam doesn’t smile so much as crease his cheeks, and gets away from the mourning surfer dudes.

“Thank you,” you tell Guy. “We might give you a call later.” You hand him your card before you leave.

Sam’s walking back to the car, a dark expression over the tensest jaw you’ve seen in awhile.  Before you can even ask what’s up he’s muttering, to you, you think.

“Fuckin’ self-indulgent, short-sighted, goddamned-”  He shakes his head, incensed.

“What, those guys?” You thumb over your shoulder.  “The harmless earth-lovers?”

“Poppin’ shit onto their bucket lists like that’s what you should be doin’ with your life.”  He grumbles it like you’re not even listening, flicking his jacket off his shoulders as he gets to the car and bunches it up before opening the back door and thumping it into the cabin.

You’re frowning now.  This is quite the tantrum, for Sam.

“Uuuuh, well, they’re entitled to spend those lives how they wish.  Right?”  You stand there with your hands open, watching Sam get the journal from the trunk, ignoring you, and heading for the driver’s side.  

“C’mon,” he grumbles, “I wanna get back to a laptop.”

Okeydokey.  

All the way back to the motel, Sam drives like he’s stubbed his toe 5 seconds ago.  You keep it simple to avoid friendly fire.  

You watch him almost break the motel door as he heads inside, and see him slam the fridge after he gets a beer, then turns back to get another beer and slam the fridge again.  It rocks back and thuds the wall, still settling when Sam’s piffed the cap into the sink and snapped open his computer, holding your beer out for you. You thank him carefully.

He sits and huffs a breath, has a mouthful of drink, and slumps there as the tabs load, his hands hung in his lap.

You wish you had a helmet.  “Sooooo, you’re having a feeling.  About something.”  You offer a shrug.  “Just a guess.”

“Who the fuck are they to have bucket lists?!”

Right, he’s gonna tell you about that feeling.

“They’re fuckin 22, 24 years old.  They could be spending their days and all that energy doing _good_ , making a difference in people’s _lives_. And instead they’re tossing off on waves, fucking sucking up the good life on what? Daddy’s money.  Callin’ Mom once a month.”

He rants and stabs passwords into his keyboard, slumps in his chair with dejection, taking up his beer again and waving it around like it’s the point.

“And they go and make a list,” he peers at you, leaning at you with the side of his head, “a _list_ of things they need to do before they _die_.  Like that’s a foreseeable problem.”  He scoffs incredulously, shakes his head, and clicks through a few things.

“Well, in theory,” you say slowly, “the way they live, yeah, death is probably more likely for them than anyone else.”

“Bullshit,” he says, lips shiny from the brew and spit.  “Those guys are damn well untouched by that shit.  Like they can control when they die.  Life of Riley.  Shits me no end.”

You have a lot you could say about this but-

“Go on.”

“What?”

“Go on, tell me how I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong.”  How did you become next in line for the attack?

“Yes I am,” he tells you.  “There’s a counter point.  Tell me.”

“W-  I-” Your shoulders are so high they’re whispering warnings in your ears.  You’re not listening. “It’s just that maybe you don’t know everything.  Maybe they’ve lost people, in untimely ways.  Maybe they were sick in the past.  Maybe, I dunno… we need to have people who do spend their hours enjoying the good parts of the earth just because they’re good.”

Sam stares through the screen, listening to you explore the opposing side, and slides into despondency.

“I mean, don’t you want people to enjoy all these moments we buy them?  Isn’t that kinda what we fight for?”

Sam doesn’t move, but his gaze shifts around like he’s thinking back at you, mounting a case.

“And it is pretty rich of you to scoff at seizing the day.”  You tell him off a little bit. “You and Dean are the only ones I know who have actually chosen when they’ll die… or at least when they won’t-”

“Yeah okay.   _Thank_ you.”

“Job done?”

“Yes.” Sam rests his elbow on the table and leans his temple on two fingers, looking at the laptop like it was supposed to bail him out.

Five minutes later when he’s said nothing more, and you’ve taken off your jacket, you dare to bring up the conversation again.  “Have you never considered a bucket list?”  

“I think it would mostly consist of stopping the thing that currently wants to kill me.”

“Seems redundant.”

“Somewhat.”

He types some more, haltingly, brain half on a thought.  “And jinxy.”  His hands rest on the keyboard and he sort of leans your way, squinting at an idea, but unable to word it…

“It’s the hope,” you say, thinking with him.

“Yeah.”  He looks at you, nodding.  “It’s tempting fate.”

“They tempt fate with a list, and again with life threatening fun, and then they _survive_.”

“Fucking _yes_ ,” he peers at you.

“ _Assholes_.”

Reluctant dimples appear and he sets his jaw offside, biting the inside of his cheek before sitting back straight and clacking again.  You go back to your tablet and look for something about similar people… surfer dudes who’ve burned away…

“Do you have a bucket list?” Sam doesn’t look away from the screen.

“Uuhnope. Never considered it,” you reply, equally engrossed in your work. You think you have a lead. Maybe demons have found a weakness in those who’s believe in the earth’s energy, and twisted it into a tricky deal…

“What would you put on it?”

“Mmmmy eightieth.” Sam huffs at your answer while you pore over two more deaths like this but they’re ages away, the nearest located by some of the best surfing in the country.

Sam’s lost focus, his eyes staring through the flickering wifi signal below the screen.  Graduating Stanford, Jess, having a home, all those things were somewhat the stuff of an ideal life, all half achieved.  But just because things haven’t worked out in the past is no reason to assume all things will fail.  

“I think we have a demon collecting souls,” you say, inspecting what you think might be a trend.  “I think they’re targeting hippies, giving them a kind of immortality until the end.  Whaddyathink?”

He always thought he was so immensely lucky to be friends with you.  Your friendship.  That was the limit of his luck, he thought.  And suddenly it seems like squander to settle.  “You.”

“Hm? What?” You look at Sam.  “What’d I miss?”

Sam looks at you hunched over the table, hair wind blown, a bit stale and sweaty from the heat, completely befuddled by his word.  You.

“You always know what to say.  Tell me more?”

“Have you heard of Shelter Cove?”

…

“Oh my God.  Okay, yeah, it was grim,” Suzie nods, squinting up at Sam.  The sun’s behind him but he’s not turning around, which is odd.  He’s usually so accommodating.  

Suzie holds her hand up to shield the brightness, saying “Far out, you are, like, totally all Fed-ness aren’t you?”

“Yeah, uh, well, we have questions, so.”  Sam nods at her and goes back to looking at the surf.  They’re where the sand meets the grass, the high hills behind Sam providing no shade this time of day.  Out to the north of the sweetly curved beach are some rocks in the high tide, rippy patches of churning water at this time of day, but straight ahead it’s neat tubes of waves, a nursery for beginner surfers.  The beach isn’t busy.  There’s a small airport nearby but somehow it’s a quiet Saturday in the most picturesque seaside town Sam’s ever really visited.  He’s breathing it in.

“Uh, so, did Eric ever talk of why he lived the way he did?”

“Oh my god, your shoes even.”  Suzie looks back up. “Uh yeah, actually.  Said he bought a ticket to the perfect life. And that it was worth it.”

“He was 22, right?”

“Yep. Hey, did you wanna borrow a board?” Suzie asks him like it’s a normal thing.  “You’re practically drooling, man.”

“No.  Uh, no,” Sam frowns, refocuses on her, all business.  “No I’m good thank you.”

You’ve been leaning against the car, listening in and enjoying the location.  Sam strolls back, hair bouncing around in the breeze, a picture of a caged life.

“So whaddya reckon?” he asks, pretending that leaning on the nose of the car is so he can talk secretly, not so he can look at the Pacific.

“I think I bought you a pair of swimming trunks in the last town.”  Sam glares at you, stunned.  “And that we should check where these guys went to school.”

You go back to the trunk and pull our your bathers, dangling the shopping bag from your finger so Sam can see you mean it.  He blinks, jaw slack, and doesn’t argue.

You guys ate beck when he got supplies and you bought the swimmers, so while all the actual surfers are back digesting their lunch, letting the subdued surf do nothing without them, you and Sam are walking over the hard, wet sand towards the water.

“I can’t believe you did this.”  Sam’s smiling at you beside him, gesturing to the swimming shorts.

“Well, I already had bathers,” you explain, “and it seemed unfair to want to have a swim if you couldn’t join me.”

The water is a comfortable temperature and you kick through the shallows to knee height, breathing deep at the slosh of salt water around your calves, cleansing and refreshing.  You’ve been pretending to be engrossed with the water, since you got changed, and it’s certainly easier now you’re in it, but Sam got changed too and it’s been awhile since you’ve seen him shirtless.

“Did you have to get me a hawaiian print?”

“It was that or fluoro zigzags.”  You squint up at him, hands on hips.  “You don’t zig or zag.”  You can’t tell what, exactly, he’s looking at.  You’re wearing a plain halter-neck bikini, dark red.  The hipster briefs have a thin, dark brown belt and a buckle.  It’s rather 60s.

“I might do both in a pair of fluoro pants.”  Sam licks his lips and looks out at the waves, putting his hands on his hips for the bad news.  “So, you realise I’m going to have to throw you in.”

“What?! No! No you don’t!” You start to walk into the deeper water, pretending you’re not running away.  “Why? What would make you think that?  No one likes being thrown in!”

“For buying me terrible swimmers.  I look like a tourist!”

“You _are_ a tourist Johnny Utah! Waa-!”

He’s grabbed your elbow, hooked an arm around your waist and hauled you up onto his hip.  “Wait, no,” he teases.  “That’s not right.”  He drops you into the thigh-high water, sideways so you’re fully dunked, then scoops you up out of it, arms under your shoulders and knees.  For a few steps you’re all blowing water and hairy eyes, trying to figure out what part of him you can respectfully hold onto while your waist slides against his belly.  You’ve barely gotten a hold on his shoulder, coughed out “Fuck! You bastard!”, and he flings you into the depth, laughing at your burbling protests and yelps.

The water is clear, and the waves aren’t breaking right now, so he can see through the sparkling rolls as you right yourself, twist and push, and breaststroke your way to the surface.  He slips into the water up to his shoulders and starts to help his balance, treading water with his arms.

“Pfff!” You surface and wipe the water from your eyes.  “Such a bastard.”

“This was a great idea!”

You shove water his way, the sunlight glinting off your cheeks, and start to swim away.  He follows, ducking to get his hair wet, and you hover there, looking back at the land.  

Over the next half hour or so, you enjoy the time, taking turns to duck or swim, or float, chat about other beaches you’ve been to, childhood memories.

“Do you think these guys made a deal back in school?” Sam asks.  You’ve come back to a depth he can stand in, and you bounce off the tips of your toes.

“Yeah, I think they might’ve moonlighted in some witchcraft, something childish, and maybe they were tricked into signing over something they didn’t know had value.  And maybe at some point they parted ways, and lived their lives, and now they’re paying up.”

Your breath bounces off the surface as you bob.  You’ve been slowly moving north, relative to the beach, and you slide down off another mini shelf of sand, slipping into the water before Sam puts out his arm, giving you something to hang off.  

“How are we going to intercept that though,” he wonders.  He walks back to where you were, dragging you while you kick to help, and you talk.

“I dunno.  A deal’s a deal.  We’d have to catch the demon and kill them… who knows if they’re using the same hunting method.”  You try not to think about holding on to him.  Skin seems to have an extra texture to it in water, a catchiness that heightens its presence.  All that volume around him, a body of muscle and life in the water.  He’s paler in the bending light, and his muscles are either washed out by reflections or heightened by shadow.  As you move towards the shore, he starts to emerge, his torso and waist slowly revealed, and you go back to peering at wherever it is your feet should be going.

You groan.  “I’m realising I didn’t buy you a towel.”

“No problem. There’s a spare in the trunk,”  he says.  “I’m gonna head in. I’m getting cold.”  The tide has turned enough that the waves are starting to break again.

“Okay, right behind you.”

You push away and face the open sea again, taking a few moments to remind yourself that Sam is someone you have to work with and you shouldn’t go pretending that unusual places are somehow in some parallel universe.

Meanwhile, Sam’s been turning back every so often, watching you bounce and duck into the water, your shape dipping and diving, re-emerging watery and shiny, the lacquer setting off your curves.  By the time he gets back to the car, he’s warm again and towelling off, facing the surf.  His nose is pointed due-west, but his eyes are a few degrees south, watching you come out of the water one last time, face first so you’re hair is out of the way, and you stride out of the white wash, thighs pushing against the foam, in the hottest swim suit he’s ever seen.

He wonders what he would regret, if he were to die tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You strike out on the case, but of course there’s another right behind it.

On the sand of a lesser known bay, south of Pismo Beach, just beyond Mussell Point, Dougie, Eric, Ethan, Trent, Allan and Flip made a pact.  It was ten years ago and they were just in high school, new and relieved and excited and brave.  They had lucked out and found a tribe of like-minded boys, the six of them, and they talked about surfer movies and older girls, and the cars they’d own, and how they’d drive down here and build a fire and sleep on the sand, with their girls, and chase the summer, or the snow, or whatever exciting times they could afford

“Man, what would you give for that?” Trent had asked.

“Oh my god, _anything_!” Dougie laughed, leaning over and guffawing at his friends.

“Oh my _god_ yeah.  My hair!” nodded Eric.  “My sister!”

“I would _give my soul_ to have non-stop fun and adventure.”  Flip was a little bit intense, but they were inclusive, if nothing else.  “Wouldn’t you?  I mean, it’s your _life_. If you go and put yourself in a box for The Man for 50 years you’ve sold your soul anyway.”

“Fuck yeah,” Dougie nodded.  “I _would_ give my soul.  I’d be spending it wisely.”

Flip laughed, giggled, like he was drunk, right there in the Saturday sun.  “I give my soul for a life of fun and adventure!  I sell my soul!”

Allan giggled too, too nervous to do much more.  “You’re crazy man!”

“I sell my soul!” laughed Trent, although he was forcing it.  His mother would cry knowing he was joking about such a thing.

“I sell my soul for a life of fun and adventure!!” yelled Dougie, and as Flip repeated it one more time, they all joined in, word for word, and dissolved into a ring of laughter.

That night, after Flip had snuck in some alcohol, he suggested, insisted, that kissing your friends was a way to practice.  Girls did it, he said.  You gotta know how to kiss.

When school went back, Flip found a quiet moment, at end of lunchtime, to dunk Allan - Allan, short and shy, who was raised by his faithful and superstitious Grammie - to dunk him in the toilets, because Flip knew he had only mouthed the words.  Allan clenched his fists on his thighs as he recalled that Saturday, the kisses, the bullying that followed, fighting back the tears about his lost friends and his terrible, dreadful gut instinct.

Trent had died around the same time as Eric, somewhere in the snowfields of Idaho.  Ethan’s death burned down a strip joint in Miami.  He was enjoying a different kind of adventure, but still meeting the same end.  And Flip - Phillip - had mysteriously left the school a few weeks into the term.  The boys were very broken up about it, according to their teacher, Mr Tullman, who is now the Vice Principal.  But Phillip’s name doesn’t appear on any school record after that date.

You and Sam returned to the bunker to file your notes and keep a keen eye on the alerts for similar deaths.

…

“Hey I got us a case.”  Sam puts the laptop by your arm, on the table, and you read the article he’s discovered:  Fifth couple found murdered in a family home.

“The ol’ haunted house scenario?” you guessed.

“Sorta. I think it’s a jealous spirit,” he swivels the laptop to himself, so he can type a few things, and leans back in the chair beside you.

Dean’s down the end of the table, reading an old car magazine he found in the library Leisure section (which is about a foot wide). “Jealous of what?”

“Okay, so years ago, there was a double murder-suicide here.  A guy was having an affair with a woman.  She and her husband lived in the house.  Story goes the guy confronted them, meaning to take her from the marriage, and she reneged, chose her husband over him.  He flipped out, threatened to kill her and her husband threw himself in harm’s way, sacrificed himself for his unfaithful wife.  The guy killed them both, and then himself.”

“How terrible,” you sighed.  “That’s just… terrible!”

“I know!  So now, I think, the guy is still killing, knocking off happy couples.  It’s always the guy killed in the hallway, the wife at the front door, like she’s trying to escape.  He’s beaten and she’s frozen.”

“Wait, frozen? Like rigid?” you check.

“Like he reaches into her chest and freezes her heart.”

“You always bring me the cheeriest stories.”

“Anyway, the house is empty.  I’ve applied for a lease.  Get ready to move in Mrs Winchester.”

Sheer will power keeps you from choking on your own spit.  “What?  What again?”  You turn in your chair and watch him stop and talk like you’ve bumped your head.

“Well, it needs to be a married couple, so…”

“Yes!” _B-lublurble-blah!_ Blink! “Yes! Of course! Sorry!”  All is well and nothing in the world has changed not at all not even a bit nope the earth is just going about it’s business.  Yes…

“Wait,” Dean looks up, “why isn’t this a salt-and-burn already?”

“Because the guy was cremated,” Sam states and strolls of out the room.  

You swivel back to the laptop and reflect on the past month.  Sam has been different since the surfer case.  He smiles at you like he knows something you don’t.  It’s not selfish, not unkind.  More like he can’t wait to tell you something.  It is weird.  He keeps doing little things like making you toast before you get to the kitchen, pre-empting snack food, thinking on your behalf when he’s doing a supply run with Dean or-

Your brain gasps, practically turns inside-out with the thought.   _Boyfriend things._  What the fuck is going on?

…

Upon closer inspection, over the next day or so, you decide you might’ve been thinking too hard.  There is such a thing as confirmation bias, and you would give just about anything for more of Sam.  But Sam is a nice guy.  He could be nicer if he so wanted.  It shouldn’t be a big deal.  He might also be being nice to Dean in ways you couldn’t see.  Toast is not proof.

…

You and Sam hide behind the open trunk.  He’s tall enough that he can see the house and the estate agent who’s waiting to greet you.  The house has been hard to rent, given its history, and some of the couples’ families have abandoned the whole thing, so it’s come to you fully furnished.  You’ve only got clothes and personal things to move in.

“Okay, so I know we haven’t talked about this much, but we’re acting married right?” he says, looking at you like he’s checking the last of the equipment.  You two are the last of the equipment.

“Yes we are,” you nod.  “So… what’s that gonna look like?”

Sam has a very quick think.  “Like normal but, you know, we stand closer.  Maybe hold hands.”

You look at him like he’s being silly.  “Well, yeah, but we’re newly-weds.  I mean-” You get stuck, because the first thing on your mind is kissing.  Not making out, but the incidental affectionate kissing that newly-weds- “You know what? Not all couples are lovey-dovey.  I’m just gonna call you Hun.”

Sam’s eyebrows pop up.  He seems a bit dejected.  “O-  Okay then.  Sure.”

You head for the front steps, and Sam’s quickly shuts the trunk and catches up.

“Hi Mrs Mitchell!” The agent is bright and cheery. “Here are your keys! This is the remote for the garage.  Can I show you how to empty the garbage disposal?  It’s a bit tricky.”

“Hi, sure-”

“Sorry, I’ve got a lot of houses today,” she says, walking you straight in and to the kitchen.

“Sure, no that’s fine,” you stammer as you catch up, managing to not hit the dining table as you go by.

“Hey sweetheart?”  Sam’s voice, deep and calling you from the space between the dining and living rooms, makes your feet skid on the floor.  You turn like someone might throw a bucket of water on you at any moment.  “I’m gonna check out the backyard.”

He’s standing there with your bags in his hands, shoulders broad to take the weight, and he looks like he fits right in.  Happy, relaxed, at the start of something new.

“Sure Babe,” you smile.  “No problem.”

The agent shows you all the idiosyncrasies of the house, which she can do, unsurprisingly, very fluently.  After a while you’re standing in the spot Sam was, looking down the hallway to the main bedroom at the end.  It’s past the open doorway to the kitchen on the left, then the spare room on the right, and the laundry and bathroom opposite that.

“Your husband seems quite the catch,” the agent quips, pulling out her phone to check her schedule.

“Yeah, he’s-” you swallow.  “He is.”  Smile.

“Well, I’m sure you guys will be the right couple for this place.  You’ll be here for ages.”

“Sorry what?”

Her eyebrows go way up, bottom lip sucked into her mouth to keep her from talking again.  “Oh… just… you know… circumstances.” Smile.

“Hey!” Sam appears in the hallway, from the laundry, and points at the backdoor when he says “There’re, like, three machines for the lawn out there.”

“And you’re welcome to all of them,” she assures. “Mower, edge trimmer, whipper-snipper.  All worth it for the best lawn in the street, right?  You’re gonna fit right in.  Okay!  Gotta go!  There’s my card, I’m available Saturday mornings too, call me if you need anything, just remember it’s an old house, lots of odd noises, nothing to worry about.  Bye!”

The sounds of her footsteps bounce down the steps and she literally jogs to her car.  You point at the front door and say “She makes me suspicious.”

Sam laughs and steps closer to you, trying out putting his hands on your hips.  “You called me Babe,” he comments.  “What happened to Hun?”

“Do you mind?”  You ask him with the most unaffected, light face you’ve got, and look completely uncomfortable too.

Sam drops his head down so he can murmur close to your ear, low and private.  “Hey, maybe I didn’t make this clear earlier, but we need to be convincing _inside_ the house.  Not just to people we meet, but to the spirit.”  You rest your hands on his arms and think about what he’s saying.  You knew this, you’d just avoided the fact.  “I know it’s for a job,” he continues, “but if you can’t…  There’s probably a married couple like us who could do the job more convincingly.”

You look up at him, holding each other like you’re about to do your first dance at the junior prom.  “Why didn’t you set that up first? Why did you volunteer us?”

His eyebrows retreat and he seems to grow a shade paler.  You think maybe he feels he’s made a mistake.  He looks away, thinking, concerned, and eventually swallows and tries to explain.  “That job-”

 _C-Lick!_  Sam turns, and you both peer down the hall, trying to see which door just closed.  But they’re all closed.  It might’ve been the wind.

“It’s too important,” you decide.  And then it occurs to you that missing this opportunity, with the life you lead and its non-existent room for romance, would be plain stupid.  “We can do this.  Give me a hug.  Babe.”

Sam’s smile pulls up one cheek at a time and he slides his arms around you.  You tuck your chin over his shoulder, even though it’s a bit awkward for the height, but it’s a start.

“Are there any more bags?”

“Nope, that’s all of them,” says Sam.  “Let’s go explore the house.”

…

That first night the two of you cook dinner and chat.  You talk about politics and history and it takes a few goes to stop bringing up stories to do with hunting.  By the third time you’ve hmm’d your lips together mid-sentence, Sam’s bouncing a silent chuckle at his end of the couch.

The routine is easy, and happens quickly enough that you don’t get a chance to really flip out about the shared bed situation. He’s already face down on one side before you get out of the ensuite.

“You have to feel this.”  Words you hadn’t yet imagined Sam moaning on a bed.  Pace yourself.

You lay yourself down, pull the covers over and make a noise of pleasure and misery.  You’ll have to leave this glorious bed. “Jeeeeeeeeesuhs whichever couple bought this really loved each other.”

“Ahuh, yeah,” Sam mumbles.  “It is a gift… So we’ll start tomorrow?”

You nod and whisper: “Four couples have been killed here, plus the first.  I’ve gotten the wedding registries of all five, so we can tick off who owned what that’s still in the house.”  You tuck yourself snug in the lovely white bedding.

He blinks at you.  “That’s… awesome.  Great thinking.”

“It’s gonna be fiddly, but, you know.”

“Yeah, it’s work.”  He reaches back and turns off his lamp.  “Okay, goodnight.  Sweetheart.”

“Night Babe.”  You smile, pretty much settled into the pet names, and then gasp.

“What?” Sam whispers, and you whisper too, “We should probably do a goodnight kiss.”

“…Yeah, probably.”

“Let me kiss you,” you offer, still hushing your voice.  You reach your hand up to his pillow, poke him in the neck - “Sorry! I can’t find you!” you whisper, voice low as you giggle, and he’s giggling too as he leans over for you, your hand finding his cheek as your lips meet and he’s there, kissing you back.

It’s quick and neat and happy.  Then you kiss him again.  You don’t know why.  The first one could’ve been convincing enough - it was affectionate, sweet.

But this one has a pause to it.  You reach for his lips and he presses back, the warmth and smell of him permeating your skin.  You finish it before he finishes his breath, saying “Goodnight.”

“…Yeah.  ‘night.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve begun playing at married to catch this murderous ghost and your neighbours are just as distracting. It turns out too, the LARPing on this will be intense.

Gardening, right?  That’s what couples do once the house is sorted.  Well, under the guise of tending the lawn, you and Sam head out to the shed and start noting down the new appliances in there.  From over the fence you hear your neighbours, and they’re trying to not be heard.

“That’s them,” she says.  “Go say hi.”

“No way, I’m not getting attached!”

“Darryl! Oh my God!  Just pop your head over and say hello!”

“No! You do it!,” he whisper yells.  “I’ll meet them at the Thanksgiving party.  If they’re still around.”

“For God’s sake,” she grumbles, and you and Sam glance at each other as her hands reach over the fence.  “Helloooo? Oh hi!”  You’re right there, and she looks embarrassed for a moment.

“Hey! Hi!” you smile broadly, truly, to put her at ease.

“I’m Brenda Porter.  Darryl and I live right next door!” she announces.

“Hi!” Darryl’s hand waves up in the air, over by a tree.

“Hi Darryl!” Sam laughs.  “I’m Sam Mitchell, this is Y/N.  We uh.  We just moved in.”

“I know! Excitiiing!”  She grins and bunches her shoulders.  Then she looks at the house where her gaze gets stuck and her eyebrows tilt awkwardly because… _carnage_.  “Soooo…”

“So we heard there’ve been a lot of tenants here,” you say, like a question, to clear the air.

“Yes,” she deflates.  “Yeah.  Six.  Amazing, isn’t it?”

“Wait, six? We were told about the deaths, cause the agent had to disclose that, but-”

“Oh no, there was another couple,” she tells you and it’s a relief to finally have someone talk to you like a regular person - they’re not victims, not monsters.  They’re people just like you.  But with different jobs.  And a life.  And a marriage.  “They moved in after the second uh, couple, and stayed here about a year.”

“A year?” Sam asked.  “That’s longer than any of the others.”

“I _know!”_ she says, like she agrees with how strange it seems.  “They divorced and went their separate ways.  It wasn’t much prettier than the other endings though.”

You can’t help the face you give her, something you blink away pretty quickly but still.  “Ooh, sorry,” Brenda grimaces. “It’s just.  I mean.  It’s so grim.  So terrible.  But…”

“It’s ridiculous!” Darryl can’t keep out of it and he appears next to his wife.  “All those deaths in the same house-?!  Hi!” He interrupts himself to smile at you.

“Hi,” you smile back politely.

He seems really happy to meet you.  Reeeally happy.  Brenda stares at him, amused; apparently she’s seem him besotted before.  Sam’s is unimpressed.

“Yeah, so, I mean it’s just odd,” Darryl explains.  “More than odd.  It’s unnatural.”  He looks at Sam. “Right?”

Sam pops his eyebrows.  “Uh yeah, sounds like it.”

“Do you go in for that sort of stuff?  Ghosts and things?”

“Naw,” Sam sniffs and he smiles at you, “but I think we got it covered.  I’ve got my guns,” he smiles at Darryl, “and my bat.”

You don’t actually roll your eyes at Sam but you do notice Brenda biting on her smile.  You glance at her to see what she thinks, which is about the same.

“Uh Lord,” she groans.  “You wanna come over for a coffee?”

…

Coffee was lovely, even if it was a constant dance of lies and memory tricks.  You and Brenda were well entertained by Darryl, who couldn’t keep himself from talking like you were the only one there.  Sam tolerated it quite well, if you don’t count him edging closer and closer, leaning his leg against yours, leaning into your conversation, occupying Darryl with questions and far too much interest in fantasy leagues, and after 40 minutes or so he decided the two of you really needed to get back to the lawn.

“You don’t have a bat.”  You’re both hunched over the kitchen table, halfway through the fourth bridal registry.

Sam doesn’t move, keeps reading, and after a few seconds says “I have a right hook.”

You grin at your work, and shake your head.

“What? You’re sup- You’re married.  And I was right there!” He gestures in the direction of their living room.  You don’t miss how he covers up almost announcing your fake marriage.

“No, you’re right. It’s poor form.”

By dinner you’ve gone through every item in the house that you can see.  There’s a pile of clothes - jackets and shoes, and some jewellery items - that are unaccounted for, and you take them down to the furnace.  You throw them in but nothing remarkable happens.

Standing there, staring at the wasted flames, you feel like you could be doing more.  “I think we need to EMF all the items.  Maybe it’ll be more specific than we thought.”

“I’ll go reheat dinner,” Sam says, and goes up stairs like his shoulders are heavy.

…

“You should rub my feet,” you tell him.  It’s TV and couch time again, with nothing you want to watch and nothing you can talk about in the open.  You’re restless about the lack of action in the hunt and nervous about bedtime.

“Oh really?” Sam’s happy for the distraction.  “How did you earn a foot rub?”

“I don’t have to _earn_ it, we’re _married_ ,” you explain emphatically.  “It was in the vows.”

Sam laughs heartily.  “You put foot rubs in the vows!” he says, like _Oh yeah! I forgot!_

“Damn straight. It’s forever.”

You thunk your foot on his lap and he starts to work his thumbs into the arch.  Instantly you crumple in sweet aching bliss and suck your breath through your teeth.  “Oh fuck Sam!  God don’t stop that!”  Hearing you moan and sigh for him makes his hair stand on end, prickles it right up the back of his calves.  He doesn’t stop, not for ages, and both your feet end up buzzing with relief and pleasure.

“C’mon, time for bed,” he says, as casually as he can, and pats your leg.  You don’t know the last time you went to bed at 9:30, but there’s fuck all else to do.  Nothing else you want to do more, at least, than lay next to Sam and watch him fall asleep.  Doesn’t stave off the nerves though.

He has much the same idea, and he’s not expecting to rest much at all.

“I think I’m sleeping here,” you groan dramatically.  “There’s no way I’m using my feet, not for hours.”

“Oh then I think,” Sam smiles, “that I should do this.”  He slides sideways so that your thighs are now across his, and scoops his arms under your shoulders and knees.  You grab on as he leans forward, hauling you up with him as he stands.

Sam thought he had a very short bucket list, but as he carries you down the hall to the bed you’ll be sharing, he keeps collecting things he’s glad he’s now done.  Swimming in the ocean, rubbing your feet, and now feeling you hold onto him.  There’s not much more he wishes for really; this enough has him fighting to stay relaxed.

Meanwhile you’ve been adding items to your bucket list in the name of things you want again, things you want more of.  Happy Sam in the surf, jealous Sam by your side, burning Sam in your arms with his hold so sure and stable and his shoulder under your hand, all his little sounds and breaks of breath right before you, rough chin and plaid undone, and… and here is the bed, where you’ll just-sleep, again.

“I need to clean up,” you say, far more quietly than necessary.  He hasn’t put you down yet.  It seems he doesn’t want to.

He flexes his grip on your knees and ribs, looks down at you laying against him.  “I’m worried.”

“About what?”  You look up at him and he’s almost stern, frowning at the bed and then at the floor.

He speaks lowly and crisply, hoping anyone listening won’t hear it.  “I think that couple, the one that divorced, were safe because they weren’t in love anymore.  I think the ghost reveals itself to a couple in love. Like he loved.”

“That sounds logical,” you think.

Sam looks at you, apologetic and hopeful.  He curls his arms so he can hold you close enough to whisper in your ear.  “He has to think we’re in love.”

You place your hand on his ear, the heel of your thumb on the corner of his jaw, and hold him to you, keeping his lips by your ear and whispering into his.  “Be convincing.”

You move so you can look him in the eye, show him it’s okay and he kisses you. It’s sweet and shy, and he does it again, again, nudging you up each time.  His lips are warm and smooth, and he’s finding it easier and easier to kiss you like it’s real, like you don’t mind.  You don’t seem to mind.  Not when you pull on him with your hand, not when you open your lips and see what his taste like, and not when you sigh at the feel of his tongue on yours.

He puts you on your feet and holds your head in both hands, kissing you smoothly, with muted passion.  You can feel his chest pull breaths, like he wants to race ahead but the rest of him is taking orders, going slowly, carefully.  His hand cups your head, the other your lower back and he pulls you into him like it’s Step 1.  You put your hands on his back and follow the routine.

Step 2 is rubbing your back and kissing you more and when he trails kisses over your cheek and down your jaw so he can bury his face in your neck, lets his tongue taste inside quick pecks, your gasp is authentic but your  _Baby_ is right on cue.

You feel his fingertips pulse in response and he lets his hands slide down your shoulder, slide to your waist so that he can feel under the fabric.  Step 4 is pulling off your own top like it’s no big deal and you watch Sam’s lips hang loose.  You tug at his shirt, pulling up the hem of his tee as he slips off the plaid and you swallow about Step 5.  You’ve seen Step 5 a dozen times - wet, sun kissed, bloodied, bruised -  but holy shit, Step 5 in the warm glow of a bedroom, up against you… Letting Sam hold you, feeling your breath bounce off him, dealing with the smooth skin, chest hair, his radiant heat, your arms tucked inside his hold… Well that’s 6 through 12 done already.

He swallows and says “I need you,” words on script, heart off the page.  

You reach up to kiss him more, hands on his shoulders while you think of what should come next, how you’ll manage it, and how much you’ll do.

Sam holds you against him and walks you backwards.  The back of your legs hit the mattress and you trust his lead even though it’s a little odd.  “Lay down sweetheart,” he says, pulling back the covers and watching you, following you onto the bed.

As is standard, he gets between your legs, but lets himself lay low so that his belly his over your groin.  He keeps looking at you purposefully, like he’s about to talk, or sending you thoughts.  He reaches down and undoes his pants and pushes down just the jeans, kicking them aside under the covers, then looks at you in question and you nod, helping him do the same with yours.

He climbs back up, pecks you on the lips and gently eases himself onto you, only half his weight, and tilts very much like he would if you were about to have sex.  It electrifies your inner thighs and what’s behind your underwear.  They’re not really pretending.

You place your hands on his back, right over his ribs and feel his muscles work below his shoulder blades while he’s over you.  He kisses more, and again down to your ear whispering “Think he’ll believe this?”

Sam drags himself along you, right up your body so that his thighs push yours up and wide and you feel the length of his cock, hard and hot, slide against your softness through the fabric.  You gasp sharply at the good aim and dig your nails into the muscle between his shoulders.  

“Yeah,” you burst quietly, half because you should (Step 19, roughly) and half because it’s delicious. He grunts shortly at you snatching at him, pausing above you.  He’s not inside, but he’s gazing at you like he is, checking you’re okay or wanting more.  He moves back and does it again, making you suck your breath over your teeth, and he groans through a long blink.

It looks for all the world like he’s thrust into you, and both of you are suddenly aware of how much he’s not.  You wrap your hand around the back of his neck and look him in the eye like you should, because you’re pretending he’s your lover right now, your husband, and he’s unconsciously rolling against you like he’s pacing the gate.

It’s the slightest of nods and he goes again, rutting the head of his cock against you, where your panties are blooming.  He starts nudging with rhythm, the blot of wetness from him adding to yours, and it feels too good for you to care that he’s watching you, stealing the view of you in pleasure.

Soon you can feel the fabric of your pants start to catch.  Sam drops down to his elbows and shifts his hips.  You tilt yours too, chasing pressure for your core and your clit together, only getting one at a time.  Both of you are panting freely now, immersed in the feeling of each other and the fleeting brushes with perfection.

Sam’s so hot over you that you push the covers back, thoughtful enough to stop them at his waist and hide the underwear.  You fist the top sheets and pull, wishing him closer, and he _Mm!_ s hard at your very convincing frustration.

With his mouth on yours, he changes tactic.  He lets his cock thrust against your entrance, blindly bashing at the door, and uses the friction to bring himself so close to the edge that he’s sure it’s about to get pretty frikken authentic.  Then he puts his hand on your belly, thumb on your clitoris and you grab onto his head, your moan slipping high when the pad of his thumb pushes between the lips, presses the soft cotton against the folds and starts rubbing over the fabric.  Sometimes he drags his fingernail over the nub, watching slack-jawed at how it makes your whole body twitch, but mostly he circles and it makes you float beneath him.

You want him under the fabric, certainly all of him, but that thumb especially and you have a mind to drag it up to your mouth for some wetness. If that happens, though, he’ll be taking them off and getting himself inside you, and the small part of your brain that’s remembered that this isn’t meant to be the two of you, that part tells you to just kiss him.

So you do.  You pull him down, onto your open mouth, tongue tasting and his reaching too, and mumble “Fuck, Sam, you’re gonna make me come.”

“That’s the plan sweetheart.”  He buries his face in your neck and starts flicking his thumb, his hips working faster than ever.  And as good as it can possibly feel, what tips you over, what makes you gasp and arch your back and scratch his skin, is his teeth on your neck when he comes first.

“Goh-uh,… Y/N.”  Sam’s hot breath fills your space, and he kisses your neck while you feel your clitoris fizzle, your core spasm on nothing, thighs trembling over the phantom fuck.

Sam kisses you, palm on your jaw to gather you to him, so heartfelt and full, with fingers that brush your hair and thumbs over your cheeks.  He lifts himself up enough to see your face, still panting while he watches you relax, your brow easing with the deeper breaths.  It’s all so sensitive now, heady and damp. 

When you open your eyes to look at him, he says what he thinks he should say.  It’s terrible, in a way, and once you realise it’s coming, you’re ready - because you’re happy for Sam to hear these words, you think he should, and it’s a truth.  And he knows what’s going on. 

There’s a flicker, a little sorry across his brow, but he’s calm. “I love you,” he says, steady and quiet, like it’s easy.

Suddenly you feel the sand drop away under your toes.

“I love you too.”

Never have you tried so hard to make a lie look so fake.

Sam smiles shyly and glances down at the mess between you.  It’s mostly contained to his pants, some shine apparent against your thighs.

“Um, I’m really tired,” you say, “I think I might just go to sleep.”

“Oh- okay,” he nods.  He’s gets the idea and backs off, raises an arm and a leg, so you can roll out from under him and take your place on the bed.

“Sleep well sweetheart,” he says and presses a sweet kiss high on your neck, near your hair, just long enough to start you leaning back for it.

Behind you he figures out how to make it look like he’s pulling his underpants back on, and gets out of bed to go clean himself up.  You would too, you mean to, but you watch the shadows of Sam moving around in the bathroom and sleep steals you away before he’s back.

…

Sam rises early, goes for a run.  You eat breakfast while he showers and dresses.  He eats breakfast while you shower and dress.  And every time you pass each other, playing the role of honeymoon couple, the contact grows like static electricity.  From fleeting glances and swapped ‘Mornin’s, abandoned sentences and sheepish shuffles in the kitchen, to swallowed stares and sweet-stuttered pleasantries - _How are you? I’m good, and you? Yeah good That’s good_ _That’s great_ \- you both end up blinking and dimpled and trying to recall who asked what.  You feel like the door handles might zap you.

When there’s nothing left to do, you suggest a “run” to the “shops”, and you and Sam drive to a nearby park with the case files in your lap.  There’s a lot of throat clearing on the way.  It’s bright and green and shady around the park bench, and you can read and talk about the case out from under the ears of the spirit.  You can also sit and think without having to face each other.  Perfect.

From a closer read of the initial couple’s history, two possibilities reveal themselves.  One is that blood or body is still trapped in the woodwork from the suicide.  Another option is that something similar is in another part of the house: There’s a single sentence in there from a family member that reveals he was a fixer, and mended all sorts of things everywhere.

“Dammit,” Sam sighs.  He fiddles with the take-away coffee cup in his hand.  “It could be anything.  Who knows where he caught some hair or chipped a nail.  Hell, he coulda bled all over that ensuite extension.”

“I think we’re going to have to burn it down.”  You frown at the files, still trying to think of another solution.  “Maybe we can ask Dean to do that while we’re out of the house?”

“Without all of our things?”

You think for a while, recall exactly what you’ve brought along.  Except for lost device chargers and the inconvenience having to shop for stuff, it’s not that big a burden.  “Yeah.  Put our weapons in the car- in Dean’s car - and go out to dinner.  A very public dinner.”

“With the neighbours.  It’d get rid of a few potential witnesses.”

You nod.  “Yes, I think you need to ask them, though, so Darryl doesn’t get any ideas.”

Sam smirks and picks up his phone to call Dean.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go on your alibi double-date (which Sam does not enjoy) so Dean can finish the job. But you were wrong about the ghost - very wrong - and now you’re in danger.

The two of you would stay at a restaurant and have dinner until some third party told you about the fire, or you went home to discover it.  That was the plan.

Sam booked the restaurant.  Sam also chose the table.  When the waitress lead you to a square setting that would have you all facing each other, Sam declared the rectangular one nearby better, for the view, and you sat yourselves with your backs to the window.

Sam’s view was Darryl, and yours was Brenda, one couple facing the other.  It meant Darryl couldn’t easily bump your ankles with his, or pick your plate with his fork, or catch your eye, or anything else Sam could imagine.  It wasn’t going to work miracles though.

So before long, dinner felt like an eternity.  In that time Darryl has had to try your wine, had to share his glass with you, reached across the vase and wine and water and glares and offered his salmon for you to taste.  He’s asked about subjects in high school, first boyfriends, first job, first car, and he told you about aaaall his travels, as well as the year he commuted everywhere by bike.  “But I think it started interfering with my sex,” he said around his sirloin.

“I’m not sure it really works like that,” Sam muttered, blinking at the man.

“No, I, like, I really couldn’t get it up unless I’s thinking of Jennifer Anniston.”  Darryl looked at you, and at Brenda, and nodded at his interesting trivia.

So, dessert is coming and Sam is about ready to invent another course just so he can do Darryl à la broche over his thoughtless attention for you.  Even Brenda is getting exasperated.  There isn’t long to go, but you feel maybe some solid discouragement is in order.

The sweets arrive.  Sam’s opted for coffee already but you and Brenda have a chocolate pudding each, and Darryl has some pie.  Brenda takes a discrete moment to whisper something to Darryl, while the plates are settled.

“Sam?” you begin.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not sure I feel that well.”  You take a bite of your dessert (because it looks damn decadent, and your mouth agrees), and make a show of disappointment that you aren’t well enough to have more.

“Oh, you wanna go?  I don’t mind.”

“Such a waste,” you groan.  “It’s hot and everything.  These things are rubbish when they’re reheated.  All rubbery.”

Sam looks at you.  He has his head ducked, like yours, eyebrows up and waiting, making the effort to look properly, unlike the fleeting, cursory glances you’ve given each other all day.

“Finish mine for me?”  You look at him imploringly and, as Darryl is distracted with his own forkful, you wink.

Sam’s chest sinks, ears turning pink.  He manages to blink, swallow and nod all at the same time.  Brenda licks some sauce from her lips and tries not to smile as his reaction; Darryl is still catching up.

Sam gives the slightest of twitches, making to take your plate for you, but you get there first and collect some of the spongy pudding on your fork, dip it into the sauce and hold it up between you.  “See if you like it first.”

Another swallow and enough eye contact to make up for the whole day, Sam looks intensely from you to the fork and leans like he should.

Brenda smiles at the show, not missing Sam’s control, how his breathing seems to measure itself while his gaze is stuck on you.  She watches his jaw open and close, watches the delicious food disappear behind his teeth and the slow-licked lips, the long swallow down his throat, (so much distance on a man his size), and blinks herself back to her own meal lest she show up her husband.

Darryl meanwhile has opened and closed his mouth in sympathy, ghosting Sam’s movements while he wistfully watches you actually feed your fake husband, and chews on nothing but wishes.

“You like it?” you check innocently.  “Is it good?”  Okay, not that innocently.

Sam works his tongue around his mouth to clean his teeth, still watching you.  

He doesn’t need another mouthful.  He doesn’t want to waste time eating your food. But rushing out now would be ridiculous.  “We can go home if you want,” he says, flexing his jaw like a full stop.

“No, you finish your coffee,” you say, encouraging him with a nod, but he doesn’t turn away from you.  It’s verging on rude, or odd at least, so you lean forward, chin first, and he matches you, instinctively recognising the gesture, and kisses you, in front of everyone, only closing his eyes at the last second before you pull away.

Darryl leans over to quietly talk in Brenda’s ear.  “Jesus they look good when they kiss huh.”

Sam’s tongue rolls between his lips and he looks at the space over your heads.  He’s had enough of everything.

He turns to his coffee, a ridiculously small cup compared to his hand, picks it up with his fingers caged over the rim and drinks down the near-burning liquid.  “We’ll get it to go,” he rasps.

One wave at the waitress, and your meal is whisked away, Sam’s standing and you’re up and out of your seat.

“We’ll catch you guys soon, yeah?” Sam smiles fully, earnestly, and they stand.  A canon of _Bye! Safe travels! Yeah, we’ll see you! Take Care!_ bounces between you all.  Brenda leans for a kiss on your cheek, pulling away with wide, meaningful eyes about Sam and Darryl, and you make a similar face back.  

Sam stands a little too close and shakes Darryl’s hand a little too hard.  “You guys have a good night, huh?” says Darryl. “Huh?  A ha ha.”

“Of course,” Sam says jovially.  “A-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Okay have a good night!”  He smacks Darryl on the shoulder and leads you to the front desk to collect your pudding, and then you’re out in the carpark and the cool night air.

When you get to the car, Sam turns you, backs you up against the passenger side door and steps up close.  He hasn’t relaxed an inch and you’re leaning back to see him, clutching your dessert with one hand.

“There aren’t any ghosts out here Sam.”  

“Just the ghost of my self-restraint.”

It’s as though you can feel the speed inside his body, just the thrum of it making the air around you warm.  He presses his fingertips on the car windows either side of you and leans his hips and chest against yours.

Tilting down, he whispers in your ear, “They can still see us.”  With him in your right ear, you realise that yes, the restaurant is to your left.  Specifically the wall of window that Brenda and Darryl are facing, now that your seats are empty.

“Sam, I don’t think this will discourage him.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Sam says lowly, and starts to kiss along your neck.  His fingers find your waist and he squeezes, asking “Do you mind?”

The car’s no longer cold behind you, and your pulse is marking time while you think and stare at the dark sky over his shoulder.  Sam’s lips are dancing across your shoulder and his tongue keeps darting onto your skin. Then he shifts his stance, you’re not even sure how, and you can feel the bulge of him behind his pants.  It makes you groan in surprise and grab hold of his arm.

“Let me show him, at least.  Please?” Sam pleads.

“Show him what?”

“What he can’t have.”  Sam works his lips back up to your ear, kisses behind it and cradles your head, tipping it how he wants.  “You’re the only thing on my bucket list, Y/N,” he says, and starts giving some dedicated attention to your neck via his tongue.

The breath drops out of you.  All this time, all his attention, all that toast.  None of it was accidental, and you didn’t imagine a thing.  Sam’s been creating a connection the whole time.

You can’t play calm any more, closing your eyes and opening your mouth, just so you can breath enough.

“We can’t ever have the perfect house and home, but I thought pretending for a while would be nice.”  His hand ventures down to your hip, holds you hard enough that even Brenda can see his fingertips dig into the fat.

Finally you manage some words. “Who said I was pretending?”

Sam drags his cheek over yours, catching your lips for a kiss that’s downright searing.  It’s hard and hot, and somehow you didn’t get this before but his tongue is that dextrous you think it might tie itself in a knot with yours and haul it back into his head.  The hand on your hip slips down, drags along the back of your leg to hitch it up against his waist, then back again, broad and firm, pushing just before your ass so he can slide you up the door and get his hips under yours.

You _mmmph_ through your nose and wrap your arms around his neck, the paper bag of pudding smacking him in the back, but he doesn’t notice because he’s looking up at you, you gasping at the sharp reminder of last night’s show of affection that’s pushing itself directly between your big toes.

(Inside the restaurant, Brenda and Darryl gape over the steam of their latte’s.  “I don’t think I can do that,” says Darryl.)

With your dessert-free-hand splayed over his ear, you kiss Sam again, moan into it, letting your lips break slack when he rocks his hardness against you.  He hums, frustrated and grinding, and rolls his forehead against yours.

“We can’t stay here,” you pant.

“Damn car’s made of bucket seats.”

“No, Sam, the house, c’mon,” you peck and pat. “Let’s go.  We have to do everything with the fire department and stuff.”

He sighs through his nose and although you hadn’t realised how much movement there was before, he’s become noticeably still.

With your nose by his, Sam hugs you, get his arms around your waist and takes a deep settling sigh, looking up at you held high against him.  “Do we have to stop this when the hunt is over?”

You run your thumb over his eyebrow and smile.  “I hope not.”

…

“Crap.” You look out into the dark darkness, the dark night that isn’t illuminated by a house on fire.  “Shit, we can’t stay here thinking.  Do we make out while we decide what to do?”

“As much as I love that idea,” Sam smirks, “why would be make out in front of our own house?”

“Nostalgia?”

The joke passes quickly, because things are still not right.  He starts unbuckling and getting out, muttering, “Maybe we won’t get this job done tonight.”

The Impala isn’t anywhere in sight, but that’s to be expected.  You hold hands and make your way up the path and steps, not too slowly, but slow enough to have a good look at things.  Sam opens the unlocked door and sees a torchlight swing around the corner of the room.

“Sam?”

“Dean?”  Sam steps in, still herding you behind him, until he’s sure of what’s what.  “What’s going on?”

“There’s nothing here.”  Dean turns off his torch and flicks on a light.

“Where’s the forced entry?” Sam asks him.

“I was going to do that last, before I started the fire, but dude,” he flops his arms on his sides - torch in one hand, EMF reader in the other.   “I’ve dragged this thing along the wood where the mess should be.  There’s nothing.”

You frown, and look around.  Nothing has changed.  “We know.  It’s just that burning the building seemed the neatest thing to do.”

“Yeah but what if it isn’t even here?  What if it’s someone or something else, elsewhere.  They’ll rebuild and we’ll find out with another weird murder,” Dean says.

You blush at his suggestion, embarrassed you hadn’t thought of this too, but it’s Sam who defends you both:  “No Dean, everyone has an alibi, no one has a reason, there aren’t any belongings bequeathed or anything.  It’s not a living person.  This fits. Occam’s Razor and all that.”

“Yyyyyyeah,” Dean toc-tocs the torch.  “I dunno.  It’s fishy.”

The sound of shoes on the porch steps make you all spin around.  You glare at Sam, wishing to hell Dean’d never turned on a light.

Three knocks at the door and you silently step up to look through the peep-hole.  You move a good yard back to whisper to Sam “It’s Darryl and Brenda!” then slowly crack the door a few inches.

“Hi!”

“Hi-yiiiii,” Brenda drawls.  “You guys dashed off in such a hurry, we’re just checking you’re okay?”

What? No. That’s crap.  “No we’re fine!”

“See?!” She slaps a grinning Darryl on the arm. “They’re fine!  I’m gonna have to get you to text him every time you make a trip, just to let him know you’re okay.”

No.  No, this is the fishy.  “I’m okay!” you smile.

“Were you two up for a night cap?” Darryl asked, eyebrows high and smile open, expectant, like you’re gonna throw the ball.

No. “You know what? We’ve already kinda started our nightcap.”  Your voice creeps up the register, helping you sound apologetic and allude to things you’d rather not name.  “Soooo I’m gonna hafta-”

“Who were you talking to?”  Well, that’s a face of Darryl’s you haven’t seen before.  He’s game, for something, and he’s not hiding it.  

Behind the door Sam wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you away, which lets them in, but you don’t know how you should answer.

“Uh, no one?”  You act confused and back away and they keep their distance like there’s a rope between you, working their way into the house as they’re allowed.  “Just me and Sam.”

A quick check down the hall is all you want, just to see that Dean has disappeared, but that’s the moment Darryl takes your hand, slips it between the two of his.  Brenda walks to the other side of the table and sits down in an open chair, rests her elbows on the polished wood and looks far too comfortable for you to pretend about anything.  

You glance at Sam and feel every hair on your body do a roll call.  “I’d rather you didn’t hold my hand, Darryl.”

His eyebrows go up, a curious _Huh_ behind his face, and Brenda says “Oh _now_ she protests,” and his grip clamps down on your bones.

“There’s another person here, isn’t there?” he says.  “It’s rude to hide people from guests.”

It’s officially become weird enough, you decide, to do away with the charade, and your silence says at much.  You’ll soon wish you’d said it with your fists.

He’s fast, and able, and even though you make it hard, even though he stumbles from your fight so that he thumps against the front door, Darryl still gets your back to his chest with a knife at your throat.  

“Wow!  She can fight!” he puffs at Brenda.

“I told you!” she tells him.  “She’s not an idiot!”

“Come out!” Darryl yells.  “Come out or I’ll cut her throat.”

“Now, you don’t wanna do that,” Sam assures, creeping towards them.  “It won’t work out if you stab her.”

“Fucking get back, Chippendale,” Darryl spits, his voice suddenly growling raw.  “This is _nothing_.”

Dean walks out of the bedroom, hands open and stands near Sam as he gets a good look at Darryl’s face, takes in Brenda over in the front row.

“Fuck me!” peeps Brenda, and giggles into her hands.

“Holy shit.  Who’s this?”  Darryl asks Sam.

“My brother.”

“Oh he’s perfect.  He’s frikken perfect.  You’d fuck him, huh?” He nudges you.  “Jesus, I’d fuck him.”

“How are you doin’ this?” Dean demands.

“Brenda’s aunt, she used to say if you got someone’s hair, you can do just about anything with ‘em.”

“I used to do home haircuts!” Brenda says, arms open to present the fact.  “And Michael would turn his chair so he could look into this house and watch Lilly and Mark, not that I realised at first, but after a few months we got talking you know? Well, you don’t know,” she waves a hand at them to blow it off.  “Anyway, long story short, he was her jealous lover and, really, Lilly brought it upon herself for being such a slut.  Mark had _no_ idea, which I found out when I cut _his_ hair.”  She blinks long and grins as she presents her part.

“What the hell has that got to do with you two?”

“Lilly was fucking gorgeous,” Darryl says, and wrenches his hold on you a little tighter as you try to move.  “Not as gorgeous as you Y/N,” his lips slip over your ear as he talks.  “She was cute and doe-eyed, but oh my god.  You’re hot.”

“Yeah okay,” Sam scowls at him. “No one doubts your hard on for Y/N.”

Darryl glares at Sam, nostrils flaring, chin pushed, and he presses the blade to your chin enough to make you push back into him.  “I think she wants me Sam.”

“She never said no!” Brenda waves a finger.

“Never said _don’t_ ,” Darryl grins. “Didn’t tell me to fuck off.  Like she shoulda.  Like you shoulda.”

“We told you to fuck off a million different ways,” you grit out.  

“Yeah?” Darryl asks, hot tempered and smug through his teeth. “What was that in the car park then, huh?”  He grabs at you with his holding arm, crushing you into him and spitting words of annoyance enough to get your cheek wet.  “That thing with the dessert? Tempting me?   _What the fuck was that?”_   Darryl puffs out his nose, and you look at Sam because you have no answer.  He stands ready to jump off the earth, if only he knew which way to go.

“What the fuck,” you carefully repeat, “has the first murder got to do with you?”

“ _We saw it,”_ Darryl says, mashing his lips and nose against the skin before your ear, thirsty over the memories.  “And it was _fuck_ ing amazing.  Blood everywhere, Mark crying, Lilly crying-”

“Fucking, crocodile tears for miles,” Brenda grumbles.

“-and Michael just so… _passionate!”_  He says it so close his teeth nip your skin.  “Downright Shakespearean. But the next couple - was that John and Jenny?”

“Joel and Jenny,” corrects Brenda.

“Right.  So fuckin’ dull,” Darryl says.  “Their fights were always the same, same words, same tears, and nothing ever happened!”

“It was just,” Brenda looks at the ceiling, trying to think of the words.  “They either shoulda fought harder, or not at all.  It was so… meh.”

“You wanted to see some blood,” Dean surmised darkly.

Darryl gives a little huff through his hungry smile and flicks his tongue at his bottom lip, because Dean’s hit the nail on the head.  He scrambles his embrace, the flurry of arms enough to make Sam and Dean both move forward with worry, stopping when Darryl resettles his hold on you, both your arms pinned over your chest with his, the blade tip pricking the softness under your chin.  

Sam didn’t take a weapon to dinner, and his gun is in the kitchen, out of reach. Dean’s cursing himself blue for having put down the crowbar already.  They watch you and Darryl shift against the door, clenching their jaws and tightening fists when your foot slides the door mat away and you drop.   

Their restraint works harder still when Darryl grins, lifts the blade and watches you tuck into him to avoid getting cut.  Darryl’s breath bounces around, pushed out of him with your weight, and then you detect him moving the blade up, so you move too.

He watches you tilt your head back, reaching yourself back over his shoulder, as he pushes the dagger through the skin, towards your tongue, and only stops when he’s disappeared a quarter-inch of the blade.  Your whimper is low, managing your breath, and Darryl carefully asks Dean, “What’s your name?”

There’s a beat or two while you imagine Dean staring at Darryl with that dead-eyed _I’m going to kill you face first_ expression.  “Dean,” he answers, and waits to see what will happen next.

Darryl holds you still with the blade tip, pushing it a little deeper and watching the blood start to drizzle down, along the blade and over his fingers, and soon down your throat, just because he can.  

He carefully reaches inside his pocket, pulls out a pouch and holds it to his lips, telling it “Sam’s wife, Y/N, is a slut for Dean.  Doesn’t that make you angry?”

Darryl throws the pouch on the ground and a cloud of dust billows high, something far too big for such a little thing, and even though Dean and Sam step back, pull on each others shirts and step well back, away from the plume, Sam still doubles over and shakes his head, followed by Dean.

Darryl whips the blade away and thumps you against the door to spit his words in your face:  “You shoulda _told_ me to _fuck off.”_

As Darryl pushes off you, he puts himself in a perfect place for attack.  You yank your leg up, kneeing him in the groin, then punching him across the face.  He stumbles, sideways, wide-eyed with surprise.  _“Fuck off!”_ you yell and hit him again, putting him on the ground and out cold.

Brenda stands, squawking _“Darryl!!”_ and gapes at the three of you, waiting to see what will happen next.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically it’s all gone to shit, _but_ Darryl and Brenda didn’t know you were hunters.

You go to touch under your chin, but suddenly Dean is there, grabbing your clothes and holding you over the back of an armchair.  “You promised me!!”

“Dean! No-oh! DE-AN!”  He’s shaking you, furious and looming, bigger than Darryl and feeling far more dangerous.

“Let her go!!” Sam bellows, getting his arms between you.  “Let her go!!  Get out of our house!”

“You fucking promised me Y/N!” he growls, ignoring Sam pushing you both around.  He grits his teeth and growls it out, apparently heartbroken.  “How could you?!”

Dean breaks away and Sam shifts to get between you but Dean swings, clear and accurate, and punches Sam well enough to send him sideways, tipping onto the coffee table.

“Oh my god!” Brenda gasps in delight. “Darryl you’re missing thiiis!”

Dean grabs your clothes again and yanks you to him, kissing you hard and full, no hesitation, as though you’ve kissed like this before.  Sam is holding his head, fumbling with the surfaces as he tries to find his up.

Dean presses the bridge of his nose against yours and runs his words together.  “Tell me, Y/N, please.  Tell me you’ll leave him for me.  He can’t love you like I do.  He doesn’t know-” You get both palms on his face, fingers and thumb crossing to push him off you.  “Y/N, _Please!_  I love you!” He gives in some but mostly bends away, his arms around your waist still.  

Brenda’s still watching and hasn’t thought to pick up the pouch yet.  You have a lighter in your pocket.

Then Sam is on Dean, yanking him away and tumbling to the ground, but, true to the spell, Dean gets himself on top and starts punching Sam, beating the hell out of him.

“Dean!  Stop it!!!” You yell his way as you scramble for the pouch.  “It’s Sam!! Dean! Stop!!”

He doesn’t let up and as you dig for your lighter, Sam’s starting to look limp.  You hold the little hex bag and check to see that Brenda’s still there.  But she doesn’t know that you’re a hunter, that you know what to do with this thing.  She’s stupidly standing there, hands clasped under her chin, watching Sam mumble “Y/N, Y/N-”

A moment of silence galvanises you and you turn to see Dean climbing off his unconscious brother, looking for you before he’s even upright. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and steps over, catching you before you can scramble away under the table.

“Dean!” you warn, angrily, “you can fight this!  Come on!”

The bag fills your fist and your other hand can’t get the lighter the right way around.  Dean’s wiping your hair from your face, clumsily pulling you close and puffing against your forehead.

“Tell me,” he pants.  “Come away with me.  I love you, Y/N.  Leave Sam for me.”

It occurs to you then that maybe a change in the script will break the cycle.  “Yes, Dean,” you manage, and wait… “I’ll go with you.”

His chest drops, as if you’ve said exactly the right thing, and he cups your head to hug you close.  

Slowly his hand, the one that does not vice your head against his chest, it drags down your shoulder and over your heart.  He presses his palm there and a chill throbs through your sternum.  Your words didn’t change a thing.

“You promised me,” he growls, a pitiful waver in his voice, and curls his fingers against your ribs.

It hurts, right up through your throat, and the chill turns cold, cold enough to make your armpits tremble and start a brain freeze as the fast cooling blood flows up your body.

“Oh! God! _Dean!!”_ You scramble and whisper, dropping the lighter to pull at his wrist, and can’t seem to get any real distance between you as he clamps your head to his body.  

So instead you attempt a redirection.  You put the pouch to your lips and say “Brenda, Darryl’s wife, is a slut for Michael.”

A thick, cool mass of energy moves through you, and Dean grunts heavily, spreading his palm where it was just grabbing and hugs you with fists of fabric.  “Fuck, Y/N?!”

You cough and gasp, “I’m okay!” as you shake the ache from your head and feel warmth flush to the tips of your ears.

Dean leads you sideways, and you drop down to Sam, turning his head to check he’s okay, which he isn’t.  One eye is swollen shut, both lips are split, and he’s three colours already.

Dean flexes his grip on your arm and you look up, seeing Michael’s ghost stand over Darryl.  Brenda starts to shuffle towards the kitchen, her hands patting the air at Michael to ward him off.

“Lilly,” Michael sighs.

“Fuck,” squeaks Brenda.  “Now Michael, sweetheart, we’re friends.”

“He’s gone Lilly,” he says to her, relieved something is over.  “It’s just us now.”

“I’m not Lilly,” she points at him, then at Darryl “And he’s not fucking dead!”

You pull on Sam’s shirt, trying to gather him up, get him into your arms so you can drag him down the hall, and you feel his hand come up to hold your elbow.  Dean gets the idea and moves around to help.

Michael looks confused, and stares at Darryl for a moment.  Then he brings his hands together in one double-fist, lifting it high and bring it down, slamming it with the weight of his soul, right over Darryl’s heart.  Brenda shrieks at the sight and rushes to him, dropping her head to his chest.

“Darryl!! No baby!  Come on!”

While she’s distracted, Dean grabs Sam’s shoulders and you move pick up his feet, hauling him towards the bedroom, but your back is turned and even Dean’s “Y/N!” doesn’t get you out of range fast enough.  Brenda’s slammed you between the shoulders with a vase, scratching your skin and sending you stumbling.

“NNNNO!”  Brenda gets a hold of your arms and yanks you, drags you on fumbling feet back to the front door, yelling at you through clenched teeth, _“You stand there!  You’re the one who dies!”_ She shoves you against the wood with both hands on your shoulders, thumping your head to stardom.

When you can get your eyes to focus though, she’s got that dagger again, pressing the length of it up under your chin, unaware of how sharp it is and hitting the bone of your jaw.  You slam your head backwards, pull sideways, but she’s gripping you tight with a grimacing “hnnng-hnng-hhhh-” that she can’t seem to release.

Finally Dean’s found his way around everything, gotten one hand around your arm, one across you on your shoulder, helping you move away as Brenda stares into your eyes and feels Michael’s ghosts squeeze cold wrath into her heart.

As the colour fades out of her face and the pain makes her throat clench, you shut your eyes tight, let the blade slice against your bone, and escape.

Brenda drops the dagger, leans her hands on the door then thuds to her knees, crumpling there, and Michael watches her die by his hand.  So quickly, he’s finished and standing, then turns his attention to you.

Dean turns to him, gets his shoulder in front of you and pushes you behind him, before everyone hears Sam’s voice.

“Michael,” he says, clearly as he can.  He’s on the floor, pouch in one hand, lighter in the other.  “Not this one.”

One flick and the flame flares.  Michael watches himself disappear into fire, and it seems Mark’s ghost is burned up from Darryl’s body too.

“Okay, _now_ we burn the place down,” Dean says.  “And Mr and Mrs Mitchell disappear.”

…

You and Sam dash for the Impala and lay low while Dean works on the house.  You’re on a road towards some medicine and ice packs in less than ten.

When Dean stops at the service station - to buy whatever they have that’ll do the job - the two of you stay in the car to avoid being spotted.  After you’d helped Sam into the backseat, he slumped back, let his head loll on the seat edge, and generally concentrated on feeling shit.  You’ve had a spare shirt pressed to the cut on your jaw, and been holding Sam’s hand the whole time.

“Anything broken?” you ask quietly.

“Only skin,” he says, “and pride.”

“What? Why pride?”

“Dean was right.  It wasn’t in the house, and we wouldn’t have solved anything with our plan.”

“But he didn’t have a better idea of the cause.  If they hadn’t shown up then, it would never have been fixed like that.”

“Hm.”  Sam doesn’t have it in him to argue.  “They were impatient.”

“Yah, lucky for us.  Kinda.”  

You look out the window at the island of lights, unable to see Dean until he leaves the main building.

“So, no one was watching,” Sam comments.

You bite your lip and look at him but, tilted back and puffy, you can’t tell what he thinks, so you decide to make light of it.  “Probably a good thing. I’m not sure any one would’ve been tricked into thinking we were really making love.”

 _Sex_.  You meant sex, not _making love_.  But taking it back implies so much, so you’re stuck, hoping you haven’t changed anything.  No matter how much you wish those three words were true, you can’t bank on what’s honest in the mess of such moments.

Regret mixes with the ebbing adrenaline, and you find yourself looking at his hand in yours.  He doesn’t seem to react at all.  You squeeze your hold, saying you-don’t-care-what, hopefully ‘sorry’.

“Coulda fooled me,” he says, even quieter, to himself.

Before the disappointment can settle in, you lace your fingers between his and kiss the back of his hand, saying “There’ll be no one watching next time.”

His chest rises sharply, a deep breath of something good, you trust, and he squeezes your hand so hard you think your fingers will pop off.

“Okay!” Dean climbs back in, handing you a bag of goodies.  “Swabs, cream, plasters, ice, drugs, grease and sugar.”

You fish out what you need and hand Sam the drugs and some water.  Very quickly, while he’s resettling himself and Dean’s sorting out food and icing his knuckles, you give your chin a cursory wipe and slap some tape over the narrow stab wound hidden in the shadows.  Your jaw might need stitches but that isn’t a priority right now - plaster will have to do.  Dean needs to drive you guys far away as soon as possible, and Sam has no depth perception.

The light is poor, since you’d parked away from surveillance cameras, so you do your best to clean Sam’s wounds.  The eye closest to you is still swollen shut and he has a mean cut over that eyebrow, as well as on the cheek bone, thanks to Dean’s mean right hook.  The other side of his mouth got the brunt of Dean’s left.

Getting your head bashed about tends to hurt your neck too, so you don’t want to make Sam turn or shift.  Instead, you climb up and swing your leg over.  He doesn’t realise until you’re over him, having no left vision, and jolts up, pulling his legs together for you.  You sit on his thighs and guide his hands to the width of your hips, saying ”Lay back” in a quiet voice so he’ll rest his head again.

“I’m here you know,” Dean mumbles around his pie.

“Just providing a distraction for the patient, Dean, nothing more.”  You smile into your work and Sam’s smiling with what he can.

“Yeah.  Just no… none of that, back there.”

“God. You beat the shit out of your brother.  Having a girl in his lap is hardly terrible for you.”

Dean chews for a while.  “Sorry ‘bout that, by the way.”

“S’ok,” Sam rasps.  “Wasn’t you.”

“You okay?” You sit back, lean back against the front seat and look at Dean. “I didn’t get possessed.  Are you okay?”

“Hey, if you guys are okay,” he smiles at you, “I’m ok- oh shit!  When were you going to mention that?!”

Dean’s glaring at your jaw, where the dagger sliced against the bone, and now Sam’s gaping at it with his good eye.  He leans up, coming close to inspect it while it’s out of the shadows.

“It can wait,” you tell him.  “I thought you knew.”

“Dammit Y/N, I thought that was my blood,” Sam mumbles. “When did that happen?”

“While you were out, obviously.  It can wait and you can’t help.  Dean’ll fix it when we’re home.” You push on his chest so he’ll lay back again. “Let me finish.”

You lean over and keep cleaning, and his hands squeeze the rise of your hips.  He lays his forearms flush against your thighs, curves his wrists to keep the warm contact.

You glance down at what he’s doing and whisper “Helps me feel better too.”

A dimple peeks through, and an eyebrow curves, and because you can’t help yourself, you spread your knees and slide yourself closer, pushing against his jeans.  He sucks in a breath at he pressure and how nice it feels, and your eyes glance to the side, reminding him of Dean.

“Ow,” says Sam, and you both bite your smiles to protect the wounds.

When he can tell you’re finishing up, he says, “Give me a swab.  I can see enough.”

As carefully as he can, dragging, not dabbing, Sam wipes your neck and properly tapes your cuts.

Then you’re beside him again, packing away the stuff, saying “Lay down for the trip,” and patting your thigh.

“God you two,” Dean groans.  “I’m a fucking chauffeur now, aren’t I.”

You smile and reply, in your plumbest voice, “Home, Winchester.”

Dean starts the drive and you drag your fingers through Sam’s hair, slip them over his long neck and under his jaw where the skin is clear and warm.  He breathes deep, slides his hand between the seat and your lower back, and sleeps for as long as he can.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has healed. Time to add some things to the bucket list.

“I’m having second thoughts.”  Dean looks at you beside him, the slightest pout giving away his concern.

“Why?”

He blinks as he thinks, slowly squishing his face… “Is any of this… pleasant?”

“Are you serious?”

“Nnnnny-uh,” he shrugs, a sort of yes.

“Let me do your back, then tell me if it’s _unpleasant_.”

He doesn’t argue, so you get behind him and squirt some cream onto each shoulder.

“Sounds gross,” he tells you.  Evidence.

You spread the sunscreen across his skin, shoving him around as you rub it in as thoroughly as you can.  He’s already done the rest of himself, and you push some of it up his neck, over his ears.

“That feels yuck,” he sooks.

“It’ll soak in.”

“It’s greasy.  The sand is sticking to it.”

“That’ll wash off.”

“The sun is too bright.”

“It’ll go supernova one day.”

“Everything is terrible.”

You sigh dramatically and put your hands on his shoulders, peeking around his left.  When he looks at you, he’s looking at Sam too, sitting on his towel nearby.

“Dean,” you sigh, “you can either lay on your towel and feel the unique earthling experience of our star warming your cells from 150 million kms away, or come experience the sublime sensation of your entire body submerged in perfectly clear, pleasantly saline water, between a piece of land and the horizon.”

Dean squints at the blue, hoping that’ll disguise his smile.

Then Sam says “Pick one or I’ll throw you in.”

Dean scoffs quietly, as if Sam couldn’t do it.

“Bucket list,” you say to Sam.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Seeing you thrown into the surf.  It is now on my bucket list.”

“No.  No-no.” Dean shakes his head.  “No.  You are not.  No one.  Is throwing-  HEY! NO!”

Sam’s standing, dusting off the sand.  “Hey, she wished it!” he tells his brother.  “I gotta at least try!”

Dean jumps up and waves Sam away, criss-crossing his arms, and you back up too, keeping Dean in front of you.  “You can fuck off,” he tells Sam as sternly as possible, trying to turn so he can see you too. “Just.  No.”

But Sam’s grinning, biting his bottom lip and ducking to make a grab for his legs.  Dean flinches, ready to snatch Sam’s arms and hold them back, but you get a hold of his wrists and push your thumbs into the back of his forearms, straightening his arms and holding him still enough for Sam to get his shoulder into Dean’s belly, and haul his big brother over his shoulder.  

“No! NO! No! STOP IT!” Dean orders, and Sam’s giggling his head off as he turns around and _goes._

“ **I** AM **GO** NNA SH **OO** T Y **OU**!”  Dean yells, voice bouncing as Sam scoots across the hot sand toward the water.  Then he leans a hand on Sam’s back to point at you, following behind and hopping over the ripples as Sam lunges into the deeper water.  “Think I won’t shoot you too?!  I will!  You’ll get your own bull-ET!”

Dean’s off Sam’s shoulder, flopped right into the water, and you’re standing by Sam, hearing your favourite laughter in the world.

When Dean resurfaces, he’s smiling and wiping his eyes. “Oh my god. Son of a-  You’re an asshole.”

Sam’s all teeth and sparkle as he wraps an arm around your waist before falling into the water, taking you with him.  From that point on, his hands are on you, tucking you against his belly, or leading you onto his back, or holding your hand as you float over the rolling waves and duck under the breaks.

You chat and talk water-based monsters, share stories of swimming during school, and Sam shifts you around his body like a backpack.  Soon Dean’s feeling the cold, and excuses himself to go try out this “Sun” you speak of.

The coast is literally clear, with only Dean’s broad form striding out of the water, and Sam has you wrapped around his shoulders and waist as he faces the sea.  Water laps between your chests and breaths bounce off the surface, off your wet skin, as you steal legitimate ways to feel him so bare against you, catching on your inner thighs and rubbing against your belly.

“You know the worst thing about this,” Sam tells you, “is between you in that bathing suit, and how much of you is not in that bathing suit-”  He breathes out his nose and drags a palm up your waist, over your breast.  You’ve both been fully healed for about a week, but it’s been a long while now that any time you have space to yourselves, where no one else will hear and nothing else needs you, you make the most of it.

It’s easy for him to hold you up in the water, so you cling with your legs and reach behind your neck, undoing the halter clasp and peeling the fabric down, then undo the chest strap too, and tangle the bikini top in your fingers to keep it close.

Sam watches, an absent smile on him as you lean back and lift your hips so you can float yourself at the surface.  You hair drifts formlessly and the water laps over your skin, cooling it under the sun, licking freshness over your belly and bare breasts and you listen to the swishing and _corckle-orckle_ sounds in your ears.

Sam’s fingers span under your waist, helping you drift, and he tucks your legs under his arms.  He sways you side to side, dragging you through the water, and it feels fun and indulgent.  He walks backwards with it, giving you something that feels nice.  Then he lifts you a little, letting your hips drop and your back curve into the water so he can kiss your belly, almost your ribs, and walks his hands up your spine so he can lap at your breasts like the water does.

His tongue is hot on you, both rough and slippery, and feels so small compared to the way the water carries you.  You hold onto his arms, let him tip you upright so he can get the weight of your breast against his mouth, take the curve into his tasting bites, and you look over the small breaks to the near empty beach, where Dean is lazing in the heat, where no one is watching.

Sam stops what she’s doing and squints up at you with his forearms up your back and his face between your bare sun-kissed, Sam-kissed breasts.  “You realise, I’m staying in the deeper water to hide my hard on.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it here.”

“Nothin’ at all,” he grins, looking at your shining cheeks and clumped eyelashes.

You shimmy down and feel your belly catch on his after so long in the sea.  “Dean won’t care.” You cuddle up, press against his warmth.  “Sooner we get out the sooner we can sort it.”

Sam kisses you, salty lips and sweet tongue.  He presses you flush against his body, trying to push away all the cool space between you, and get at least a little pressure on that relentless erection.  You smile and move away enough to figure out which way is up with your bikini top and wrangle it back on.

Then Sam’s turned himself and begun to piggy-back you out of the surf, towards your towel and Dean.

“My mind is changed,” Dean drones, lips squished against the back of his hand as he lays on his belly, buttery under the delicious rays.  “I’m not going anywhere.  It’s like being in bed, but outdoors.”

“I’m setting an alarm on your phone,” you tell him.  “Cause we’re going back to our room, and I don’t want you burnt to a crisp.”

“Thanks Mom.”

…

“Bucket list!” you call, as soon as the motel door is locked.

“What’s that?” grins Sam.  Those words are hardly ever a dare for him; he’s game for anything.

You’re already wriggling out of your bathers and Sam’s wrestling his down.  “Shower sex,” you grin and bite your lip.

“Ha,” he grins. “I’ve already ticked that box I’m afraid.”

“Me too, but not with you,” you say, grabbing a fresh towel and skipping into the bathroom.  

Sam’s right behind you, then bumps into you, because the shower is… well.

“Shit, it’s tiny.”  You stare at it and think of how awkward it would be for _just_ Sam, let alone both of you.  But you’re nothing if not problem solvers.  “We can do this.”

Sam is silent, but he does look very seriously at the structure of it: small, dark green tiles on two adjoining walls, same up to the waist on the third side with glass above that, and then the three-panelled sliding glass door.

You turn on the water and wait for the heat, which is surprisingly quick, and step in.  The shower head, a bit shorter than Sam and facing the half/half wall, isn’t flexible at all, and in the small space you need to turn away to keep the water out of your face.  But when Sam gets in with you, there’s merely inches spare, and you have to stand side-on for him to fit, and take the spray.

You lean back, blinking and blowing at the water flying everywhere and he starts grinning, leaning away too so it doesn’t bounce of his chest into your face.

“How ‘bout we rinse off first?” he suggests.

You nod, still blinking blind, and duck your hair under, turning slowly to get it all wet, Sam’s hands on your waist as you do, his cock bobbing tall and sliding across you with it’s own slick.  He pushes up against the door to give you enough room, sucking in a breath at the cold glass on his back.  Then he’s trying to get under the spray, nearly headbutting you, and you both laugh at the impracticality of it.  He ends up on his knees, trying to kiss your body without drowning, and you push your fingers through his hair, encouraging him to just lean his forehead on you and let you rinse him.

“I’m warm enough,” he says, and turns off the water.  

With one foot wedged against the door frame, Sam grabs your thighs, one in each arm, and rises, getting himself standing with you wrapped around him in nearly one move.  You hold on tight and let him shift you, arch your back at the cold tiles when he leans you, and you both look down to see his hard cock push through the lips of your pussy.  It’s a different wetness there, and you pull on each other so you can kiss and hum, traces of saltiness still on your lips.  

Sam shifts you a little more, adjusts his feet and grunts slightly while he gets you both into a place that’ll last, and then you can feel him pushing up into you, past the catchy damp and into the burning slick, so quickly, back and forth again, getting deeper with each thrust as your juices coat him more and more.

When he’s a deep as he can get, he holds your hips and tilts you both, getting you flush to the bone.  Then you hook your fingertips onto the upper edge of the tiles and the top of the shower frame to steady yourself.  You make yourself strong for him, take as much weight as you can while he supports your ass before him, and he leans down to kiss your chest where he can reach, like a thank you before he starts.

You look at him watching you, arms braced with you in his tight hold.  The water still drips down his neck, matting his chest hair, and painting the trail on his belly into threads.  He’s using everything he’s got to keep you both where he wants you, so as soon as it’s right, the moment after he makes eye contact, so heavy and wanting, he thrusts, hard, determined, and doesn’t wait for a sign before he goes again, and again, very quickly getting up to a demanding speed.  

In seconds he’s smacking his hips against your ass, waiting for you to catch up.  The drag of it is a relentless pleasure inside your pelvis, making you gasp and sigh.  You clench your eyes shut at how good it is and pull on what you hold.

He’s been waiting so patiently, you realise, and you’d forgotten how much handling you, feeling you, and seeing you in the water might be such a tease for him.  Maybe later, you think, he can lay you back on the bed, while he’s on the carpet, and remind you of when you were floating in his arms.

But right now, your shining breasts are bouncing because of him and your lips are slack with sweetness, sighs climbing every time he shoves his himself into your body.

“I can’t reach you,” Sam says, voice jostled and breathy.  “You do it.”

You open your eyes to check what he means, and he glances down at where you’re swelling and red.  You suck you lower lip into your mouth and choose a hand - the one on the tiles is actually much more stable - so you reach down with the other and start a circling that matches his rhythm.

It only takes a few moments, but goodness, it’s so sweet, so hot, between his cock flushing your g-spot with sensation, thick and hard and fast, and your fingers swirling pleasure, literally between the two of you it’s already feeling white, high, a kind of perfect, and you circle faster, pulling on the tiles.

“I wanna try something,” he puffs.

“‘Kay,” you sigh, not giving a half a shit what that could be right now, ‘cause he’ll surely tell you next.  You’re about five seconds off.

But nothing changes; Sam keeps his pace, your pleasure grows, climbs steeply and there, right there, you’re ready, about to drop, and Sam rolls his hips this time, tilts them even sharper and it strikes you just right.

You cry out and grit your teeth, your pussy quaking and ringing, and you feel it thrum through you like a soundwave.

Suddenly the water is there, the shower dumping a full spray of cold over you and you scramble at him, grabbing and clenching everywhere as you gasp to the edge of your lungs.  Sam groans sharply, coming inside you, and his fingers dig into your hips with brutal strength.

“Ho! Ho! Fuck! Sam!” you puff, all your breath rushing to the top of your chest, away from the freezing cold.  “What the hell!!”  But he’s still lost in the feeling of you clamping around him, how the splash of cold made him gasp too, and how everything snapped so tight at just the right moment.

As soon as Sam can let go of anything enough, he turns off the tap and pulls your body to his, leaning on the tiles through you while the breathing eases and the bodies warm up once again. You hug him and after a while, when he’s pulled out, he helps your legs from his waist.

Eventually he drags his brow across yours and kisses you, warm, lovingly, brushing your damp hair away.

“The Ice Bucket challenge and the Bucket list are _really different_ Sam.”

“Huhuhuh,” he chuckles, a little breathless.  “Ooh I’m sorry.  Was it really that bad?”

“No,” you admit, lightly smacking him on the neck.  “Was it any good for you?”

“Mmm,” he says, kissing you again.  “Kind of amazing.”  More kisses, hungry affection, and he steps back, turning on the shower so you can rinse off the sweat and cum, with warm water this time.  “How can I make it up to you?” he smirks.

You think, while you finally get clean, and he steps out of the cubicle, shaking the wet from his hair and waiting for you so he can wrap you up in a towel, all of you inside the soft fabric and his strong, hugging arms.  

With his nose beside yours and that sinful little smile plucking at your lips, you decide it’s going to take a bit of thinking to answer that.  “Let me revise my bucket list.”


End file.
